


I trust your shoulder to be there

by Alkarinque



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Childhood, Fëanorian Week 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 12:10:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14056713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alkarinque/pseuds/Alkarinque
Summary: There are many dislikeable things in childhood, but smirking brothers and unsympathetic surroundings must be the worst of those. Yet there are also many likeable things, like kind fathers and cake.Or, a young Caranthir gets the blame for something his brother has done and seeks out his father in exasperation.





	I trust your shoulder to be there

**Author's Note:**

> This is my third contribution to Feanorian Week, on Caranthir's day. I based it of the prompt childhood, but I managed to get a mild betrayal and marriage in as well. 
> 
> This fic takes place before Curufin is born, when Caranthir is around 6-7 in human age, Celegorm is 11-12, and Maglor and Maedhros are 15 and 17 respectively. Celegorm has just received his mother-name, but Caranthir only has his father-name so far. That is why I only refer to him by Morifinwë in the text. Maglor and Maedhros is not in the fic, but they would be closer to maturity than the others in this so they are probably studying music or politics under the tutelage of someone. 
> 
> Nyarissë is an OC of mine, and is the boys' nursemaid. Her name means "story-teller", for those who were interested.

“Father!”

A mumble above his head, over the edge of the workbench. He said it louder.

“Father!”

A heavy sigh. Morifinwë knew that sigh. His father was irritated and tried to collect himself so no ill words would come out. He had disturbed him at his work – not anything important, he only did important work in the forge – and he had always been told by everyone that one should never disturb his father at work.

“Yes, Morifinwë?” his father asked and looked down at him, and yes, there it was; the familiar expression of repressed annoyance and an attempt to patience on his father’s fine face.

Morifinwë hated that expression because it felt like he always saw it. He also hated how his face already started to turn scarlet.

“Tyelkormo lied!” he burst out, unfamiliar to his brother’s new name, but his father only lifted an eyebrow.

“And what did he lie about?”

“He told Nyarissë I had let loose the dogs again. But it was him! I swear!”

His father lost his amused look and turned stern instead.

“And why did you not tell her that, Morifinwë? Surely if you can tell me, you can tell your nursemaid?”

Morifinwë’s cheeks turned hotter and he so wanted to tell his father exactly what had happened; how he had struggled with his words to Nyarissë who had tried to listen, but how Tyelkormo had noticed and cut him off at every chance he got, making him nervous and angry. Asking silly questions and smirking and mentioned how he had wanted to clap the dogs the day before, making him angrier. How Nyarissë had noticed and sent his brother out. How she then had sat down with him and tried to talk to him again. But Morifinwë, red and angry like a thundercloud, had soon lost the patience to try to explain so Nyarissë would understand and had lashed out and run out.

He had seen Tyelkormo outside, smirking wider. By the Valar, how he hated his smarter, brasher brother.

“Morifinwë”, his father said with an austere tone.

How he hated his father who was the mightiest of the Noldor, and who never failed in simple matters like talking.

“No one listens! No one understands!” the child exclaimed loudly, fully red in his face but his father, used to outbursts, only scowled.

"That is because you never try to make people understand. You need to try more, Morifinwë; or else no one will ever bother to understand.”

His father’s words sounded harsher to the young boy than they were meant. Fëanáro loved his blunt son, despite his temper, but could seldom make sense out of his mood swings and reasoning. He himself had been a perceptive child, curious and quick in mastering speech and writing. He had easily made himself understood at an early age, despite his own temper which had ruined a few diplomatic meetings at his father’s court. His other sons had been similar, even Turkafinwë though he had not tried to excel as much as the other two. Because of all this he often found himself lost in how to handle his now youngest child who, though working hard and always trying, still struggled to make his thoughts known.

Nerdanel always had the patience to calm him and take time to make sense out of what he meant. But she was away to meet with other artists who she planned to collaborate with. Fëanáro never collaborated, he worked alone, but it meant he had been left to handle the household on his own for nearly the entire day.

Morifinwë looked down, a bit ashamed of disturbing his father and getting – from his point of view – a reprimand. His face was still red, and he was still angry about his stupid brother who so easily used him and Nyarissë who did not actually deserve any anger but still just could not _understand_. And now his father who just told him to _try_ , when all he ever did was _try_.

He started to cry. He did not want to; he knew it was a cheap way out of scolding. But the frustration, the way nothing seemed to _work_ , and his father’s disapproval when it was _not his fault_ \- too much. It became too much. His father immediately lowered himself down to Morifinwë’s height with worried eyes and stretched his hands out to cup his son’s cheek where tears ran down from the angry eyes.

“Moryo”, he said softly, using his son’s less proper name. “Son, I didn’t mean- Of course you are _trying_ \- Come here.”

And he embraced his sobbing son, whispering quietly to him about how he was sorry and how he believed him – “Turkafinwë can be like that, I know, of course he can” – and how everything would be alright. Morifinwë clung to his father, frustrated tears now running too free for his liking but unable to be stopped. He had not hugged his father in a long time and it soothed him more than he could have imagined – the warmth, the beating heart so close, the trusting words. Fëanáro, used to crying children but not quite so distressed children, only held him closer, continued to try to ease him and did not think about how his shirt got wet by tears.

Eventually Morifinwë’s crying had been reduced to quiet sniffling and small hiccups. Only then did Fëanáro loosen his hold and cup his son’s small face, still red but now from crying instead of anger. He studied it with an anxious frown. Morifinwë looked back with his dark eyes, now calmer but left feeling empty as only crying tended to do.

Fëanáro sighed into the sudden silence, not irritated as he had before but rather gentle. Then he tried smiling, and Morifinwë returned it hesitantly. Seeing his youngest feel better again made the older smile wider and he stroke his thumb across the cheek that still had the roundness of childhood. He remembered when Morifinwë had only been a babe, screaming and red even then but oh, how he had loved that little creature anyway. And now he nearly reached him to his hip and came to him when his brother lied and raged and cried in his arms and smiled with those deep eyes alike to dark waters and what a wonder he was despite whatever flaws one may see.

“Let us go outside”, he said at last when the quietness started to grow uncomfortable. “I believe the kitchen still has some cakes from your grandfather’s visit.”

Morifinwë looked at him for a second, before mumbling a quiet 'okay'.

And Fëanáro walked out from his workroom towards the kitchen area, holding the hand of his youngest son; tools and work forgotten.

 

Many minutes later found them sitting in the garden on a stone bench, the child nibbling at a cake which left plenty of crumbs in his lap and the elder eating a cake of a creamier sort. They did it in silence and peace, listening to birds in the trees and the low buzzing of insects, until Fëanáro asked:

“Your brother let loose the dogs, you say?”

Morifinwë looked up and then nodded. Without thinking, his father started brushing away the tiny crumbs from his shirt and brushed away the dark curtain of hair which hid the child’s face, and put it behind his ear.

“He told Nyarissë I wanted to pet them yesterday.”

“Mm, and did you?”

A tiny blush.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t open so they would run away. I’m fine with petting them through the fence.”

His father thought of stories he had heard about the hounds’ sharp teeth and how wild they got when faced with a way out of their enclosures. He cleared his throat, then said:

“I think it would be better if you stayed away from them and watched from afar. For now.”

Morifinwë just looked up at him, not understanding the awkward behaviour, but said:

“Okay.”

Then they fell into silence once more. Behind them they could hear some of the servants walking through the corridors with their arms full of clean and dirty clothes or things for the kitchen. On one or two occasions they heard one drop a metal bowl and the crash rang through the halls like expensive cloth being torn in half. Morifinwë had giggled but his father had just turned around and glared, though the servant had not been in eyesight.

When Morifinwë finally had eaten his cake – he had savoured it, and Fëanáro had marvelled that a child could be so stingy – his father once again started a conversation.

“Would you want a sibling?”

He had thought about it for the whole time they had spent in the garden. It was not a serious question – though it could become one -, not until Nerdanel was introduced to it, but Fëanáro was curious to what his youngest thought about possibly becoming an older brother.

Morifinwë frowned. “Why would you want another one?”

“Well, son, children are a delight. Everyone wants children.”

“I don’t”, his son quickly pointed out.

His father sighed. “No, but you are one as well. You will understand it better when you are older and married.”

“You think I will be married when I’m older?”

Fëanáro raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Yes, of course. You do not think so?”

The child seemed to give it serious thought and his father wondered absently what he would look like in the future; if his face would take a shape more like his mother’s side or his, if his eyes would remain as deep and dark as they were now, what his loved one would look like, if he would be happy – but of course he would be happy, he told himself, he as a father would see to it. He felt a sudden longing after another child; something he could raise again so he and his wife’s house would not become empty so fast.

Morifinwë in turn did indeed give it serious thought; tried to imagine himself with someone he loved who was not family. It was strange to try, for he did not even know how it was to be grown. But at last he could visualise a warm smile and easy acceptance. Perhaps someone I would not need to try so hard with, he thought. Did those people exist? Yes, he realised, his mother was like that. He never needed to try so hard with her.

“Perhaps it would be nice”, he answered with reluctance.

“It is”, Fëanáro said and smiled. “Believe me, it is.”

Morifinwë looked up at his father who seemed so happy for his eyes shone like light hitting water, and maybe he believed him, but either way he smiled back, happy again despite much smarter, brasher brothers.


End file.
